


Madness

by AlwaysAFangirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom Sherlock, Explicit sexual content in part two, Gay Bar, Idiots in Love, Jealous John, John in Denial, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, Sexual Tension, Stag Night, TSoT insert, Top John, Two Shot, drunk, some sexual content in part one, tw for cheating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:53:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26343679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysAFangirl/pseuds/AlwaysAFangirl
Summary: “John, why are approximately two thirds of the men here half naked?” He inquires, still looking far too puzzled and it takes everything John has not to burst out laughing at how astoundingly clueless Sherlock can be sometimes.Takes place during TSoT, insert for the stag night where Johnlock do end up in a gay bar.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 35
Kudos: 199





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y’all, so this is my first Johnlock fic. I’m relatively new to the fandom, but I’ve fallen head over heels in love with this ship. I started reading fanfic and obsessively looking for anything around TSoT, especially involving the stag night and the missing gay bar scene, but I couldn’t seem to find much out there. So that’s where this baby came from! It’s also loosely inspired by an interview where Ben and Martin discussed the missing scene. I hope you enjoy it, comments are definitely appreciated. I’m rating this chapter M, but there will be a second chapter rated E.
> 
> Special thanks to Becca for being the absolute best beta and Chels for the amazing cover art!
> 
> You can also follow me on twitter @ ItsAllFine221B  
> 

* * *

“I can't get these memories out of my mind  
And some kind of madness has started to evolve  
I tried so hard to let you go  
But some kind of madness is swallowing me whole,

I have finally seen the light  
And I have finally realized  
What you mean”

\- Muse, _Madness_ , 2012

* * *

Oh god, he is so drunk. He’d shaken his head in disbelief when Sherlock had shown up at the pub with two graduated cylinders from the lab, but it seems his nutter of a best friend has, in fact, managed to precisely calculate just how much John needed to drink in order to get positively plastered.

But it’s his stag night, right? Surely he’s allowed to get piss drunk on his own last night of freedom. Besides, he’s having far too much fun sneaking extra shots from the bar and slipping them into Sherlock’s own graduated cylinder to ensure that he isn’t the only one getting absolutely wasted tonight. John has never seen Sherlock so… uncoordinated. The man is usually more put together than the Queen’s Guards, with his tight, perfectly pressed suits, his hair flawlessly coiffed in what always look like effortless curls, his sharp and mysterious cheekbones-

_Pull it together, Watson_. Okay so maybe his cheekbones don’t have anything to do with how put together he looks, but they are entirely too _distracting_. He sometimes finds himself wishing he could touch his fingers to Sherlock’s cheeks, just to see if his skin feels as soft as it looks, like skilfully sculpted marble.

Shit. John shakes his head, willing his drunken mind to stay away – far, _far_ away – from any thoughts of Sherlock’s cheekbones, or any part of Sherlock’s body, for that matter. That was proving to be a much harder task than he’d originally anticipated given his befuddled state of his mind, the alcohol making his brain feel fuzzy and apparently awfully confused about what he wants.

Mary. He’s marrying Mary, he reminds himself. It must be her he wants.

John takes a swig from his graduated cylinder and looks up to where he expects to find Sherlock sitting across from him, but he isn’t there. Confused, John looks around the pub, the music blaring in his ears and the world spins a bit as he pivots on his stool to look around for his best mate.

He quickly spots Sherlock’s tall, lanky figure a few feet away and his protective instincts – no, his _military_ instincts, John hastily corrects – kick in as he notices Sherlock shove a younger man who stumbles back into his group of friends. Not good. The man standing in front of Sherlock raises his fist, his body taking on a fighting stance, ready to throw a punch at any second. John jumps up from his seat and heads in Sherlock’s direction. He has no idea how Sherlock does it, not with so much alcohol coursing through his veins, but he manages to move back quickly enough to dodge the punch, and the man who took the swing goes crashing down into a nearby table.

“Ohhh no,” John mumbles, not to anyone in particular and he quickly wraps his arms around Sherlock’s middle as Sherlock is all too ready to fight back when the younger man gets back up from the table, and nope, that is _so_ not a good idea. “Alright, enough,” he tells Sherlock sternly, his Captain Watson voice automatically kicking in, dragging him back with him in what he hopes is the general direction of the pub’s exit even as Sherlock struggles, swinging his fists, apparently intent to fight a man over god knows what. Something about knowing ash?

He’s past the point of caring but he is not about to let Sherlock get pummelled in a fistfight in his inebriated state. As he drags Sherlock over to the door, he finds himself thinking how much lighter Sherlock is than he’d anticipated. Sherlock may be tall, but he certainly carries no extra weight. He thinks how well Sherlock’s frame fits against his, how unexpectedly manageable it is to manipulate his body, how easy it would be to flip him in bed.

_What?_

He did not just think that. Nope. He’s clearly losing his mind. John shakes himself, willing his brain to cooperate and stop bombarding him with images of Sherlock, beneath him and pinned to his mattress. This is so not okay. John has had very vivid dreams in the past involving he and his roommate in very compromising positions, but he’d always chalked those down to his own libido and inability to get laid to take the edge off. He spends so much time with Sherlock day in and day out, it seems only natural his brain would subconsciously involve Sherlock in his fantasies. It’s entirely normal and doesn’t have to mean anything. He just didn’t expect his subconscious lust for Sherlock to take over so aggressively the moment his mind was loosened by alcohol with Sherlock at such close proximity.

Besides, Sherlock doesn’t want him like that. Doesn’t want anyone like that from what John has observed over all the years he’s known the man. He needs to stop.

He drops his arms from around Sherlock’s waist when he deems them close enough to the bar’s exit and sufficiently far enough from the impeding danger of a bar fight. “Stand up straight,” John tells him when he sees Sherlock canting forwards a bit.

“Yeah,” Sherlock answers, though not necessarily aimed at John and spins on the spot, clearly still looking to pick a fight as he points a long, slim index finger in the general direction of the younger man he shoved back. “Ashtray,” he declares, his words slurring, body swaying a bit. “I know ashtray.” John hastily moves forward again before he can do any more damage, breaching the distance between them to shove Sherlock past the door so they hopefully make it out of there unscathed.

“He didn’t believe me,” Sherlock turns to John, practically pouting, and John fleetingly thinks about how attractive Sherlock’s lips are, full and soft and – god, _stop it_. A small giggle makes it past John’s lips and he’s not quite sure if it’s because of how put off Sherlock looks about some stranger in a bar not taking seriously his knowledge of tobacco ash, or the absolutely incredulous way his own mind is playing him tonight.

Either way, it makes Sherlock laugh along with him and soon enough they both find themselves giggling like a bunch of schoolgirls outside the pub.

“I think we should head home,” John suggests once he can catch his breath again, intent on avoiding any more close calls involving strangers’ fists.

“Can’t,” Sherlock shakes his head at him, looking left and right across the street, a confused look crossing his features as though trying to remember where they are exactly. “Still got one more place to go,” he insists.

“Sherlock, we’ve practically been all around London, and you can barely stand up straight,” John reasons.

“Nope,” Sherlock counters, popping the ‘p’ at the end of the word. “There’s one last pub on this street.”

“And why exactly do we need to hit every pub on this street?”

“It’s all been calculated, John. We’re to go to every pub on every street in which we’ve ever found a corpse,” Sherlock explains.

“Charming,” John deadpans, but he can’t quite help the way his lips quirk up in a smile at Sherlock’s meticulous – and frankly morbid – planning. It’s just so _Sherlock_ , John has to fight back the sudden urge to wrap his arms around him in a tight hug. “Come on, up we go then,” John says resolutely, and he takes Sherlock’s hand – strictly for efficiency purposes, he reasons – to pull him towards the last pub on Sherlock’s mad list. Only he doesn’t drop Sherlock’s hand as they make their way towards their last stop, and he finds himself relishing in the warmth of Sherlock’s fingers around his own, the way short circuits of electricity fire through his veins stemming from every place their hands are connected, right from the very tips of his fingers and up the entire length of his arm.

It’s fine. There’s absolutely nothing wrong or particularly suggestive about holding hands, he thinks, and apparently that’s the kind of flimsy logic that passes as sound when his blood alcohol level is this high. They walk up the street, John leading them both in the direction of the only pub they’ve yet to enter, Sherlock only slightly stumbling behind him but surprisingly keeping up with John’s pace quite easily. John wonders if it’s a side effect of the alcohol, but it seems Sherlock doesn’t mind the hand holding. In fact, he’s holding on to John’s fingers, an active participant, not shying away from the touch or the connection of their bodies in the least.

The cool air and short walk to get to the pub sobers him up a bit, and he feels just pleasantly buzzed by the time they make it to the entrance.

John reluctantly lets go of Sherlock’s hand once they enter the pub and his eyes are immediately assaulted by bright lights of varying colors, music blaring in his ears and he stumbles back, his senses taking a serious hit. His back collides with Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock’s hands reach out reflexively to steady him, landing on his hips as John bumps into him. Sherlock’s body is warm and solid against his back and John’s neck is level with Sherlock’s shoulder. John doesn’t think too much of it as he lets his head fall back to rest against Sherlock. They fit together well, their bodies melding, slotting against one another and if he were to turn his head just so, he’d find the long, pale column of Sherlock’s neck exposed, smooth skin mere millimetres away from his lips. All he’d have to do, really, is cant forward a bit, and he’d-

John’s reverie is abruptly cut short when a bright spotlight shines towards them, temporarily blinding him and he can hear wolf whistles thrown in their general direction. Had Sherlock planned this? Was this some sort of grand finale to the night? John’s turns his head towards Sherlock, taking in his equally stunned expression, his eyes squinting against the white light. Right, so not planned then.

His sight slowly begins to adjust, and suddenly John starts to take in his surroundings, the countless shirtless men circling through the bar, some of them wearing nothing but incredibly tight pants that reveal far too much to John’s liking. He looks to the right, past Sherlock and there appears to be a stage, on which half a dozen exceptionally muscled men are dancing and grinding suggestively.

Oh.

He feels like he’s experiencing one of Sherlock’s deductions when it suddenly hits him that he and Sherlock are in fact at a gay bar. Sherlock still has his hands on John’s hips and John is leaning back into his body and shit, _shit_ there is an actual spotlight still shining on them, a few men whistling at them and cheering them on.

John hastily moves out of Sherlock’s arms, but grabs his hand to move him away from the bright white stream of light shining directly towards them and pulls him in the general direction of the bar. They are _so_ not about to put on a show. When he looks back, he notices Sherlock looking around, his gaze eyeing the patrons of the establishment suspiciously, and John can practically see Sherlock’s mind at work, sorting through muddled deductions as he attempts to make sense of his surroundings and come to a conclusion.

“John, why are approximately two thirds of the men here half naked?” He inquires, still looking far too puzzled and it takes everything John has not to burst out laughing at how astoundingly clueless Sherlock can be sometimes. God, he really is truly oblivious to the most obvious things. Or perhaps Sherlock just has a blind spot when it comes to anything concerning sex, having very few (if any?) experiences in that particular domain. Sherlock is a very hands-on learner, that much has always been obvious. He always makes full use of his senses when they inspect any crime scene, bending down to be eye level with the corpse, smelling any and all evidence, sometimes going so far as to taste it. And sex is… well there are very little experiences less hands on than sex, are there? And if Sherlock has never… Has he? John has always been curious.

Curiosity is definitely normal. Mates talk about this kind of stuff all the time, make allusions to their sexual prowess over pints at the pub, it’s a common topic of conversation. But not with Sherlock. No, Sherlock has always avoided anything to do with sex, and John has always thought it was because he wasn’t interested, didn’t see the appeal. _Not my area_ , he remembers that conversation rather well. A little too well. He’d filed away the unexpected feeling of rejection and the sting of Sherlock’s words that night, shoved it to the back of his mind and nearly managed to convince himself he hadn’t felt a thing, that Sherlock had misinterpreted John’s questions as some sort of come on. In time he’d learned it was nothing personal, nothing to do with him. Sherlock just wasn’t interested in anyone. And that was fine. As he’d told Sherlock that same night, _it’s all fine_.

But somehow, tonight, with alcohol flowing smoothly between them, both pleasantly buzzed, it seems his mind – or perhaps it’s rather his treacherous body he should blame – doesn’t think it’s fine at all. It’s just a little bit unfair.

Sherlock is still looking around, his brow furrowed as he struggles to make sense of the events unfolding around him and it’s one of the most endearing things John has ever seen. It makes him want to brush his hand to the soft dark curls falling over Sherlock’s forehead in a soothing way. Not good. No, that would definitely not be good and would certainly give everyone here the wrong idea about the nature of their relationship.

John considers making Sherlock wait a few minutes more before putting him out of his misery, as Sherlock certainly doesn’t enjoy not knowing anything, but he gives in, too tempted by the idea of telling Sherlock something he can’t figure out himself.

“It’s a gay bar, Sherlock,” John puts it plainly and watches Sherlock’s eyes widen in realization. John can’t help the smile and small laugh that makes it past his lips at the sight of Sherlock so obviously shocked. “Come on, let’s get us some drinks then.”

John drags Sherlock over to the bar, still holding onto his hand. No one would think anything of two blokes holding hands here, right? No big deal then. Sherlock follows, but it’s only when they make it to the counter that John realizes they left their graduated cylinders at the last pub in their rush to leave and avoid a fight. He orders two pints of beer from the bartender who gives Sherlock a once-over too obvious for John’s liking, and his gut tightens in an unpleasant way.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice though, and John is grateful that he’s as oblivious as ever to anyone coming onto him. He isn’t jealous, he assures himself. He just… wants Sherlock to himself on his stag night. They are out celebrating together, and he doesn’t want strangers intruding, it has nothing to do with jealousy.

Sherlock does notice the two pints once the bartender sets them on the counter in front of them and he turns to John. “We won’t be able to calculate our hourly alcohol intake in order to stay in the sweet spot, John.” He appears deeply concerned by this and John laughs.

“I think we blazed past the sweet spot three pubs ago, Sherlock,” John counters

“Only because _you_ were pouring extra shots into the graduated cylinders,” Sherlock accuses with a raised eyebrow, daring John to contradict him. It takes John by surprise, but the feeling only lasts a second because really, he’s never been able to hide much from Sherlock Holmes.

“Oh, you noticed that, did you?” John decides to play coy. “Why didn’t you say anything, then?” Sherlock had been adamant about keeping up with their schedule, calculating their hourly intake, even going so far as to factor in their respective volume discharge.

“Much more fun letting you think you’re getting away with it,” Sherlock answers, and John can see he’s hiding a grin behind his glass as he holds it up and takes a long sip. Bastard. But John laughs in spite of himself. Sherlock’s brilliant mind never ceases to amaze or surprise him. John shakes his head at Sherlock, still smiling and turns back towards the bar, grabbing his own beer. He nurses his drink, but his eyes dart up to the stage, curiosity getting the better of him. Three men wearing firemen outfits – well, only the hat and trousers of the uniform remain on at this point – dancing against one another, undulating their hips and the crowd is cheering them on. John has to admit, they are putting on a good show. He’s always thought of himself as straight, always naturally gravitating towards women as sexual partners, but… well he can’t say these men aren’t attractive. Hell, he’s been in the army, he’s seen attractive men before, knows that many of them relied on each other for release there too. But most of the time, that was about survival, about the surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins after a particular close call with death.

But this, what he’s seeing now as the men on stage touch each other – this is about pleasure. It’s raw desire, attraction, and deliberate seduction. And John quickly finds himself entranced by it, can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the visual display of mutual want. The fact that there are no women involved doesn’t bother him at all.

His eyes wander over to the tall man on the far right of the stage, the one with dark brown hair and John can’t help but picture another man wearing the same outfit, how the hat would fit over his dark, styled curls, how the bright overhead lights of the stage would play over his sharp cheekbones.

John abruptly tears his eyes from the sight, from the vision his mind has too easily conjured up and he’s embarrassed to find his body reacting rather quickly, his pants suddenly tighter as his blood flows south and arousal simmers in his veins. Shit. This is _so_ not the time.

John turns his head to make sure Sherlock hasn’t noticed, and something twists in his stomach when he sees an attractive blonde man, standing a tad too close to Sherlock to be considered innocent and smiling brightly at the consulting detective, apparently chatting him up.

What the hell?

John tears his eyes away from the blonde man and looks back towards Sherlock. His shoulders are tense, his back stiff and John realizes he’s probably uncomfortable, doesn’t know how to deal with flirting or unwanted propositions. John doesn’t think it through, just reacts out of pure instinct as he wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist and puts his mouth close to his ear in a clear show of possession. He feels Sherlock’s body tense, but he relaxes when he realizes it’s John who’s entered his personal space.

“I can’t believe we’ve never been here before, it’s quite something,” John says, loud enough for the blonde to hear and he’s aware the other man is watching him with narrowed eyes, like he’s just stolen his prize.

Good.

“Yes, it’s a fairly interesting establishment,” Sherlock answers and John nearly laughs, but he hides his smile against Sherlock’s neck. He expected the skin to feel rough against his lips, ragged and unfamiliar, but instead he finds himself enthralled by how soft and smooth it is, how his lips tingle from the contact, leaving him wanting more, wanting to let his lips wander and explore the newly found terrain. That would undoubtedly make Sherlock uncomfortable, though, and that is the last thing he wants, so he refrains.

“I didn’t realize you two were together,” the blonde lad comments with a touch of resentment in his voice but he quickly puts on a bright smile to brush it off.

“We are, yeah,” John confirms before Sherlock can say anything. He’s done this loads of times with female friends he’s gone out with, posing as their boyfriend to help get them out of unwanted situations where men were hitting on them. Sure, maybe he wasn’t fond of the idea of people assuming he and Sherlock were a couple when they first got here, but this is different: it’s to protect Sherlock. In any case, whether they are at a gay bar or not, people always seem to assume they’re together anyway, so he figures it’s not really that big of a deal. It’s the least he can do to help out his best friend.

Sherlock is silent beside him, but he feels him lean back, allowing his weight to fall on John’s chest and his left hand comes up to cover John’s on his waist, a clear non-verbal sign of consent. John’s hand squeezes, hoping the gesture is reassuring somehow.

“So, what brings you to this… ‘interesting establishment’?” The other man questions, using Sherlock’s terms.

“It’s John’s stag night,” Sherlock answers quickly and John doesn’t even realize there’s something wrong with the answer until-

“His?” Blonde-man asks, with a quirked eyebrow, looking between the two of them and shit. Right, if he and Sherlock are a couple, this would be _their_ stag night… Because they should be getting married… to each other.

“Ours,” John clarifies, but the other man doesn’t seem convinced. How is he supposed to get them out of this one?

Sherlock is the one to save face. “Yes, John insisted on honoring this type of marriage tradition, and I agreed to come with him, though I would have preferred to skip this excuse to get drunk. Hence why we’ve grown used to calling it _his_ stag night.” John grins. Sherlock has always been a fantastic liar, always knows how to spin a believable tale, weaving facts and lies so expertly, no one can tell the difference. It’s wrong, surely more than a bit twisted, but John has always admired him for it. Hell, he’s always gravitated towards danger and the dark side, so he supposes it shouldn’t come as a surprise that his best friend’s ability to lie so well makes him smile, no matter how demented that makes him.

“Right,” the young man seems to accept Sherlock’s explanation, but he’s still looking at the both of them with too much suspicion for John’s liking. “You should let the bartender know you’re getting married then, he’ll get you up on that stage for a proper celebration.”

John cringes at the thought. There is no way he’s getting up on stage with a high probability that he’ll be losing a few articles of clothing along the way. But the thought of Sherlock on that stage half naked though…. Well that’s an image he likes maybe a little too much. But no, Sherlock wouldn’t be comfortable with that. 

“We’re fine here, thanks,” John gives the man a tight smile, resisting the urge to politely tell him to bugger off.

“Suit yourselves,” he shrugs, nonchalantly but then his eyes turn back to Sherlock and John finds his grip on Sherlock’s waist tightening. “Well, if ever the marriage thing doesn’t work out, I’d be happy to show you the virtues of… a more exciting lifestyle.” He winks at Sherlock, apparently not buying into their cover story or simply not giving two shits about hitting on an engaged man with his fiancé right there to hear.

John feels his blood boiling in his veins, anger gripping his throat as his body vibrates with rage. Sherlock isn’t even his… he knows that, but he still feels the insult deep in his bones, like he wouldn’t deserve Sherlock if they were together, like he wouldn’t be good enough for him. And hell, maybe that’s true. Lord knows how gorgeous the man is. He looks like he could have been sculpted in marble by Michelangelo, his beauty statuesque, all smooth skin and sharp edges. Of course John could never hope to hold a candle to him. There was a time, during his army days, when he was arguably fit, his muscles toned, skin tanned from the blaring afghan sun, no extra weight around the middle. He’s under no impression that he can compare to Sherlock, certainly not now. But he sure as hell would defend what was his if Sherlock had chosen him.

Sherlock must feel John’s body bristle, clearly bothered by the comment, and he leans back further into John’s chest, an evident display of disinterest in the man who just made a pass at him.

“My life is exciting enough, and if it weren’t I certainly wouldn’t be interested in the kind of man who insults my fiancé,” Sherlock answers and a warm feeling trickles down John spine at Sherlock’s clear rejection, his decision to choose John even in this very fake relationship John made up five minutes ago. Or maybe it has something to do with Sherlock calling him his fiancé? A few years ago, he probably would have balked at the idea, but right now, in the middle of a gay bar while they entertain a fake engagement to get some creep away from Sherlock, John doesn’t find that he minds at all. If he’s honest with himself, he might even admit that he sort of likes it. John absentmindedly brushes his lips over the shell of Sherlock’s ear, staking his claim in an obvious way, and he feels a shiver run down Sherlock’s spine where he’s resting against John’s chest. Does Sherlock approve of the intimate touch, enjoy it even, or did it simply catch him off guard? John desperately wishes he knew the answer, but it’s certainly not something he can ask.

The blonde man finally takes the hint, a scowl etched across his face at Sherlock’s blatant dismissal, downs his drink in one long swig and turns his back to them, walking away in the opposite direction. John glares at his back for a few seconds, watching as he disappears into the thick crowd of people, but he’s soon distracted by the enticing smell of Sherlock’s hair, clean and familiar. He’s suddenly reminded of how close they are. Sherlock’s back is completely plastered to John’s front, their fingers intertwined on Sherlock’s waist and John’s nose is brushing behind Sherlock’s right ear. John breathes in and even in the middle of a bar where the smell of beer is so prominent, his senses are hyper aware of Sherlock’s distinct aroma, his musky shampoo and that prestigious aftershave he dabs onto his neck and cheeks.

Oh god, it practically makes him dizzy, makes the world spin round in a way that rivals the alcohol. He wants to burrow his face in Sherlock’s neck, let himself be engulfed in the intoxicating smell and _fuck_ , he’s becoming acutely aware of how his body is reacting to the sensory overload of Sherlock’s touch and smell as the beginning of an erection starts to grow in his pants. Thank god the bar stools are high enough for Sherlock not to notice his bodily reaction.

Shit. He needs to back off… pull himself together. Sherlock doesn’t seem inclined to move away, content to stay in John’s arms but John wonders if it’s just the alcohol wearing down, leaving him drowsy, his body heavier than usual. John slowly pulls away, reluctantly letting his hand fall away from Sherlock’s waist and pressing the other to Sherlock’s shoulder to hold up his weight when he moves back, as John’s chest won’t be there to support him. He squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder, lets his hands trail down his upper back for slightly longer than strictly appropriate but he can’t bring himself to regret it.

His head is swimming, but honestly, he thinks it’s more to do with the abrupt realization of how much he’s currently enjoying Sherlock’s proximity, the feel of his body against his own than with the single pint he’s barely touched since they’ve entered the bar.

He is so unbelievably screwed. He’s out here, on his stag night, preparing to get married to someone else and his body is decidedly betraying him, solely focused on his best friend. Fantastic.

Sherlock sways forward a bit as he regains his balance without John to hold him up and catches himself on the bar, signalling the bartender to send over two more pints. John isn’t sure if his bodies response to Sherlock is a sign that he should stop drinking to get a hold of himself or to drink more to return to a state of blissful ignorance.

John turns over to Sherlock, but he’s looking the other way. John looks over Sherlock’s shoulder and notices another tall man head over in their direction with a predatory look on his face aimed at Sherlock.

“Christ, remind me never to take you to a gay bar again,” John swears. He’s all too aware of how jealous he sounds but he couldn’t be arsed to care. Instead of facing this other bloke to try and drive him away, John decides they should just make a run for it. “Come on,” he doesn’t give Sherlock the chance to object, just grabs his hand, threads their fingers together and pulls him off his stool towards the dance floor.

“You want to dance?” Sherlock asks, a bit confused because he knows for a fact that John hates dancing.

“Not particularly, but I want to keep all the horny men in this place away from you.” Okay, that _is_ true, but it sounds a lot more possessive out loud than it did in his head.

“Why?”

John shrugs, can’t really tell Sherlock it’s because he’s jealous – fine, he can admit he’s a _little_ jealous – when he’s the one getting married. “I don’t want them to make you uncomfortable,” he says instead, looking down to avoid seeing Sherlock’s reaction.

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums, and ends up much closer than John had anticipated when he dragged them both over here, their bodies squeezed in by everyone dancing and swaying on the dance floor. Sherlock is definitely close enough to touch, and the way their thighs brush up against one another every few seconds is driving John positively mad.

John looks up from where his eyes had been rooted to the floor and he catches Sherlock’s gaze. What he sees there has his heart stuttering within his chest, his breath catching. He doesn’t recognize the feeling, doesn’t know if he should characterize it as something closer to panic or excitement. All he knows is that his heart feels like it could spontaneously combust at any moment, and by now, he’s sobered up enough he doesn’t even think he can blame any of this on the alcohol they drank over the course of the evening.

The room seems to disappear between them, only John and Sherlock remain as the chaos of the club fades to nothingness. The music dies out in his ears, the heavy lights stop being so blinding as he focuses exclusively on Sherlock, holding his gaze, and John can feel the blood rushing in his veins, his pulse rapid and loud, thudding against his skin and he lets himself get lost in the vast ocean of Sherlock’s eyes. They gravitate towards one another, both like moths drawn to a flame, bodies tethered together by a magnetic pull. John almost feels like he has no choice in the matter, like this moment is beyond his control, like it’s bigger than him: it’s _them_. Even if he could control it, he doesn’t think he’d make any kind of move to stop it. John’s hand moves up of its own accord, reaching out to drape at Sherlock’s right hip and Sherlock moves in too, long fingers spreading forward and up, until John can feel the ghost of a touch at his cheek. John thinks he sighs, though it’s likely no one hears in the middle of the club dance floor, and his eyes close of their own volition, head tilting into Sherlock’s touch-

“Mind if I cut in?”

You have got to be taking the piss. The moment shatters with the interruption, and John opens his eyes to look over at the man, tall, probably mid-thirties, traditionally good looking, but right now, he finds himself beyond annoyed.

“Yeah, I do actually, mate.” John’s tone doesn’t leave much room for arguing, definitely a clear message to bugger off. Seriously, could he have chosen a worst moment?

The man smirks at him but looks at Sherlock, his eyes appreciatively roaming over his tall, lean body. “I think your friend here might disagree,” he suggests, smirking at Sherlock.

Surprised, John’s gaze swings over to Sherlock, and his heart stutters in his chest cavity when he finds Sherlock still looking at him with the same intensity as before. His mouth goes dry and he bites down on his bottom lip in an attempt to keep it together, to stop himself from doing something completely outrageous, something like pulling Sherlock roughly towards him and pressing their bodies together.

“No,” Sherlock answer, and only then does John remember the guy who inconveniently tried to cut in. “Leave.” Sherlock hasn’t taken his eyes off John, but he and the stranger both know the words aren’t directed at John.

“I thought you wanted me to come over,” the man continues, now sounding a bit put off by Sherlock’s blatant dismissal. “The way you looked at me was kind of an obvious inv-”

Only then do Sherlock’s eyes move from John to acknowledge the man intruding, looking at him directly. “Clearly, I’ve reconsidered. The answer is no.”

“Right then,” the other man says, raising his hands in surrender at Sherlock’s sharp, unforgiving tone and he turns to leave, obviously a little irritated but not about to pick a fight where he isn’t wanted.

Sherlock’s eyes slide back to John, but John is puzzled now. What did that guy mean about Sherlock looking at him in an inviting way? Did Sherlock actually want to be approached by these men? Was John stepping way over the line by interfering, misreading Sherlock completely when he’d assumed he wasn’t interested?

“What was that about?” John asks, not about to let this one go. This is perhaps one of the only times he’s had the opportunity to ask about Sherlock’s interest in anything relating to sex without sounding like an arse, he’s not passing that up.

“Nothing.” Sherlock averts his eyes and abruptly turns away from John, pushing through the crowd of bodies towards the door.

“Sherlock!” John calls after him, practically has to shout to be heard over the loud base of the music, but Sherlock doesn’t turn back or slow his pace, just keeps walking briskly towards the exit.

John struggles to keep up, apologizes around half a dozen times to the men he has to push past to keep Sherlock in his sights. When he finally makes it past the door, John looks around and finds Sherlock still walking away from the bar, apparently not waiting for him and John feels his temper rise, indignation and confusion getting the better of him. He picks up his pace, jogging until he catches up to Sherlock and reaches out to grab his arm, tugging him back by the material of his coat. “Where the bloody hell are you going?” he demands, breathing hard from chasing after Sherlock and the emotions welling up inside him.

Sherlock finally stops walking, his eyes defiant when he turns back to look at John. “Home, I thought that was fairly obvious.” John knows he’s using that patronising tone with him to avoid talking about whatever happened inside and tries his best not to let it get to him.

“What’s obvious is you’re running away from something and I want to know what it is,” John holds Sherlock’s hard stare, just as stubbornly unwilling to let this go as Sherlock is desperate to hide whatever it is he doesn’t want to tell him about.

When Sherlock stays silent, John realizes he’s going to have to work harder than that to get it out of him. “Were you making eyes at those men in the bar?” Best to put it bluntly, he thinks.

Despite the darkness of the night and the poor lighting in the street, John can see Sherlock’s jaw clench and the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows hard.

“I was,” Sherlock admits, his voice sharp, devoid of emotion. “Problem?”

John feels the fight and anger drain out of him. He’s not even sure what Sherlock is asking. Does John have a problem with Sherlock being gay? No, he definitely doesn’t care about that, certainly not in the sense that it should be defined as a ‘problem’, in fact, he’s always suspected that Sherlock leaned that way in terms of romantic interest – if he had any. What he does have a problem with, is that Sherlock was apparently interested in _those_ men. He has absolutely no right to feel that way, to be jealous of anyone Sherlock may be interested in. But damn it to hell, he is.

John blows out a breath, taking a step away from Sherlock and looking away, breaking their stare. “No. I just-” He hates this, has no idea how to say anything about how he’s feeling without sounding like an utter arse and yet he’s the one who chased Sherlock down and forced him to talk. “I never thought you were interested… In anyone,” he adds. God, he feels like such a colossal moron. There he was, stepping in and posing as Sherlock’s boyfriend – his fiancé, for Christ’s sake – thinking he’d be doing him a favor, and turns out he was interfering with Sherlock’s attempts to get these men’s attention. Apparently, Sherlock _is_ interested. Just not in him.

“I’m not interested in ‘anyone’,” Sherlock counters, and John’s eyes snap back to him, confusion written all over his face. When Sherlock doesn’t elaborate, John pushes further.

“Then why would you signal those guys to come over?” He asks, genuinely at a loss now. He should let this go. Clearly this conversation is making Sherlock more uncomfortable than any encounter with strangers in that club, but he _needs_ to know. Sherlock looks away, hands stuck in his coat pockets and he looks like he would rather be anywhere but here.

“It wasn’t them I’m interested in,” Sherlock huffs out, sounding annoyed that he’s had to spell it out for John, but this only serves to confuse John further. Why would anyone signal their interest for someone in a bar if they weren’t interested in them at all? Unless, of course, it was to make someone else jealous, but John wasn’t-

It hits him like a ton of bricks, like someone has knocked him upside the head with the knowledge and he feels like every muscle in his body contracts, his gut twisting, his throat closing up.

He was _\- is -_ jealous. And he was being so bloody obvious that Sherlock caught onto that, and he’d apparently gone out of his way to attract other men to him to continue to fan the flames of John’s jealousy. He purposefully set out to make John jealous.

John’s mind replays every touch they’ve shared since entering the club, taking note of the fact that Sherlock had reciprocated every one. The way Sherlock had held his hand, touched his fingers to John’s hips and waist, leaned back into his chest, how he’d reached out to stroke John’s cheek just before they’d been interrupted. And that look they’d shared.

It all suddenly leads John to the deduction that Sherlock wants _him_.

The thought sends something akin to an electric wave, a powerful pulse through his body, sparks the arousal he’s been unsuccessfully attempting to tame throughout the night and his body just takes over, the pure, unadulterated want he feels overpowering all rational thought as he looks back into Sherlock’s eyes, grabs the upturned lapels of his coat and pulls him forward until their mouths crash together.

John feels Sherlock stiffen for a second, but his eyes quickly fall shut and then he’s kissing John back, tentatively at first though John is having none of it. Fueled by the fire burning inside him, John nips at Sherlock’s bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth and sucking, and _oh god_ , he’s wondered about the taste of Sherlock’s lips for so long, he nearly whimpers at the thought that this is finally happening. He’s kissing Sherlock Holmes and it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before.

John feels Sherlock’s hands rise up and fist in the back of his coat, holding him closer and John’s own hands move from Sherlock’s coat collar to thread his fingers in Sherlock’s curls, his mouth opening to deepen the kiss and seek out Sherlock’s tongue. A muffled moan escapes Sherlock as their tongues meet, deep and rich and it’s just about the most sensual sound John has ever heard in his entire life. Arrows of heat shoot through him, and the thought of hearing Sherlock make that desperate little sound again spurs him on as he walks them both backwards into the narrow alley behind them, their mouths never separating. Sherlock’s back hits the brick wall and they both gasp as John’s hips collide with his, the friction sending frissons of pleasure up John’s spine. He can feel Sherlock’s erection pressing against his stomach and he doesn’t have it in him to resist, lets his body undulate forwards, rubbing against Sherlock and _fuck_ , that has no business feeling _so good_ over so many layers of clothing.

Sherlock’s head thumps against the wall as John’s lower body grinds into his and John takes advantage of their position to let his lips drift down to Sherlock’s jaw, nipping and biting his way down until he reaches the smooth column of Sherlock’s neck. He kisses the soft, freshly shaven skin, sucking and grazing his teeth just above the juncture of his collarbone a tad harder than is probably appropriate but he can’t bring himself to care. Sherlock doesn’t want ‘anyone’, but apparently, he wants John, and the thought of that is slightly intoxicating, clouding his brain: it makes him want to mark Sherlock as his.

Sherlock’s hips thrust sharply against his in what John guesses was probably a reflex when he soothes his tongue over the small mark he just made at his neck and John moans this time, his pants now becoming uncomfortably tight as he grows impossibly harder. From what he can tell, Sherlock isn’t faring much better.

“John,” Sherlock breathes out his name and shit, that does nothing to help the raging erection he can’t seem to control. John continues kissing Sherlock’s neck, laving over the sharp ridge of his collarbone when Sherlock’s hands tighten at John’s back, only this time he’s pulling him away. “John, stop.”

The words rain down on him like cold water and his body goes still, mouth still open at Sherlock’s neck. He pulls back slowly, just enough to meet Sherlock’s eyes, his hands falling away from where they were tangled in Sherlock’s hair. They’re both still catching their breaths, panting, and John is still standing close enough that he can feel every one of Sherlock’s exhales against his lips. He looks down to Sherlock’s mouth and the sight of his perfect lips, so full and sharp with that enticing cupid’s bow now swollen and tinged pink from John’s kisses just makes him want to dive in again and capture Sherlock’s mouth with his own.

He goes in slowly this time, giving Sherlock enough time to pull away if this isn’t what he wants.

He doesn’t. 

John let’s his lips ghost over Sherlock’s, just barely touching, sharing the same air, and lays the smallest of kisses to Sherlock’s mouth, slow and reverent. Last time he dove in headfirst, propelled forward by the brutal intensity of his body’s desire, but he takes his time now. He can’t remember the last time he’s ever kissed someone and felt the way he does now, and Sherlock deserves to know that, deserves to feel it in the way John touches him. John feels Sherlock shiver, and it encourages him to keep going, to follow his instincts and slow things down to reassure Sherlock. He should probably be using words to explain, but he’s overwhelmed by the enormity of what he feels right now, doesn’t know how any language could even come close to accurately describing what’s boiling inside him. John tilts his head to the side for better access and kisses Sherlock again, tantalizingly slow, worshipping his mouth. Sherlock kisses him back, his mouth moving under John with what feels like an equal amount of passion and sheer want, but he pulls away again after mere seconds. Sherlock’s eyes are still closed when John opens his to look at him, and his face looks pained.

“You’re getting married to someone else,” Sherlock breathes out the words like a confession, like it physically pains him to say them out loud and John suddenly feels the sting of tears behind his eyes. God, why do they have such shit timing? This is his stag night and he’s kissing Sherlock Holmes. He can’t – won’t – regret it though, not now that it’s happened and he finally knows that Sherlock wants him this way. The only thing he regrets is being responsible for the pain in Sherlock’s face.

“No, I…” he thinks of what to say, how to reassure Sherlock. “I don’t want to marry her.” Oh god. He really said that. But the words bring with them a crushing surge of relief, because… they’re true. He’s grateful to Mary for bringing him some form of happiness while he thought he’d lost Sherlock forever, but now that he’s back… There’s no competition really. It’s always been Sherlock. Hell, he’s standing outside a gay bar, snogging his best friend on a night he’s supposed to be celebrating his upcoming union to someone else. It’s pretty god damn obvious it’s not Mary he wants to marry.

“You don’t?” Sherlock asks, opening his eyes, looking at John in disbelief and John shakes his head. He should probably feel awful about it all, but he can’t, not when Sherlock is here and he _wants_ him. Going through with the wedding would have been a mistake, he knows this now. At least now he gets to make things right before he makes a vow he’s bound to break.

“I’ll call it off,” he promises, his left hand moving up to cup Sherlock’s cheek. “Just…” There’s really only one thing he wants, one thing he thought he’d never get to ask. “Take me home?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in rating: Rated E for sexually explicit content! I hope you enjoy!

_And now, I need to know is this real love_   
_Or is it just madness keeping us afloat?_

\- Muse, _Madness_ , 2012

* * *

_“I’ll call it off,” he promises, his left hand moving up to cup Sherlock’s cheek. “Just…” There’s really only one thing he wants, one thing he thought he’d never get to ask. “Take me home?”_

* * *

The cab ride feels endless. They truly should have walked. John’s sure they’d already be back on Baker Street by now if they’d gone on foot, not to mention the walk would probably have done wonders to calm the ever-growing storm of emotions raging inside him. He feels like he’s about to go mad.

John’s been to war for Christ’s sake. He knows what it’s like to be beside himself with anxiety, to literally be fearing for his life and thinking that the next few moments may be his last.

And he realizes it’s a strange comparison to make, but somehow, he doesn’t think even that can compare to the buzzing he feels under his skin and down to his bones in this very instant. He and Sherlock are keeping a respectable distance, sitting on opposite sides of the backseat, no parts of their bodies even close to touching, and yet he thinks he’s never been more aware of a few inches of empty space. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Well, that’s entirely false, he knows exactly, and most precisely what he _wants_ to do with his hands, he just knows he’d probably get them both arrested for public indecency if he let them do as they’d please.

The last thing he needs is to have to call Lestrade to bail them out of jail.

So he keeps his hands to himself, tries not to fidget like a bloody teenager, and pointedly does _not_ look at Sherlock because he knows that if he so much as glances at him and sees an increment of what he feels on Sherlock’s face, John would positively lose it.

Fleetingly, he thinks he should be more concerned about the state of his engagement, that maybe he should speak to Mary to officially end things before he and Sherlock go any further. It would probably be the respectable thing to do. But he can’t. Not tonight.

Tonight is between he and Sherlock. He knows he can’t go back to Mary now, he couldn’t. Not when he’s felt what it’s like to have Sherlock’s body so close to his own, had the taste of Sherlock’s lips on his tongue. No. Now that he knows Sherlock wants him, there’s no going back for him. So, no matter what happens tonight, his future with Mary has already been upended: it’s over.

John pushes all thoughts of Mary and his cancelled engagement to the far side of his mind, grounding himself in the present. Even with all the alcohol they’ve consumed tonight, John can still make out the exquisite smell of Sherlock’s cologne and he has to repress a shiver that threatens to make its way down his spine as his body responds to the familiar odor. It’s a heady mix of cinnamon and green apples, fresh and clean and so god damn enticing, John thinks at this rate he might even have to stop breathing through his nose if he wants to keep from spontaneously combusting from pure, next-to-unbearable want in the back of a taxi.

God, his heart is going a mile a minute, his legs feel like they might not support him when they finally do make it to their destination and his head seems to be spinning a little, which he knows has nothing to do with liquor. No, this is all Sherlock.

John has never considered himself inexperienced when it comes to sex. But he’s starting to realize that maybe he’s not so practised when it comes to love.

He loves Sherlock. He’s never felt the way he does about any other human being than what he does for Sherlock. Sure, he’s anticipated and been quite eager to have sex before, but nothing like this, never like he’s on the verge of shedding his skin or like his heart might actually give out if he doesn’t get to touch Sherlock in the next five minutes. It’s agonizing, sweet, excruciating torture.

John knows he shouldn’t, knows there was a reason he was staring out the window and keeping his eyes, far, far away from the one thing on his mind, but he can’t help it, he turns and sneaks a look at Sherlock.

He feels a crushing wave of heat wash over him when he finds Sherlock looking directly at him, unashamedly staring. He’s very obviously drinking in the sight of John, his eyes roaming over his body, his mind most probably firing off deductions like it’s on fire, analyzing every one of John’s micro expressions and observing all the ways John’s body is betraying him.

Oh, he is so screwed.

Sherlock’s pupils are shot, eyes so dark John can barely see any of the remarkable shade of blue that never fails to stop people short. Unlike John, Sherlock is making no attempt whatsoever to hide the blatant desire he feels and unfortunately for John, the hard-on he’d worked so hard to subdue is now back with a raging vengeance, the look on Sherlock’s face, the way he seems to want to eat John alive goes straight to his groin, his abdomen physically contracting as his arousal heightens.

Shit, _shit_ , how is he supposed to survive this?

He’s suddenly aware of the cab slowing down and coming to a stop and John nearly moans aloud in relief when he realizes that they’ve finally made it back to Baker Street. He hastily makes his way out of the cab, prays his legs won’t fail him and head’s straight for the door, not needing to confirm that Sherlock is right behind him.

He reaches for the keys in his pocket. He’s never given them back, even when he’d moved out, when Sherlock returned and he wasn’t living there anymore, Sherlock always insisted that he keep his key. Baker Street would always be his home.

His hands shake as he fumbles to find the right key on the ring and he very nearly drops the whole set of keys to the ground when he feels the warmth of Sherlock’s body against his back, his hands coming up to frame John’s hips, pulling his body closer and Sherlock runs his nose across the exposed column of John’s neck.

John feels his knees go weak, his hands shake, and he fails to insert the key into the lock, missing the hole by a few millimetres.

“John,” Sherlock groans out his name, his voice low and raspy, impatience painted in his tone.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Sherlock inhales deeply, his nose still at the side of John’s throat, very evidently smelling him and John thinks he’s never been so turned on in his entire fucking life. The hard press of Sherlock’s erection pokes against the small of John’s back, the evidence of Sherlock’s desire for him making him whimper and grow impossibly harder in his own trousers, but it’s the push he needs to finally succeed in unlocking the door. They practically tumble inside, John’s body having been almost wholly held up by the door, but Sherlock’s reflexes are quick and he catches him before he can make an utter fool of himself and fall face flat on the floor of their foyer.

But Sherlock reels him back, tugging John towards him and wastes no time before capturing his mouth in a kiss. John sighs, relief coursing through him, and he thinks it has less to do with the horrifyingly long cab ride here, and more to do with the fact that he’s waited over four years for this. John is man enough to admit it to himself – now that it’s safe and he knows with undeniable certainty that his feelings are reciprocated – that he’s wanted this for an abnormally long time. Maybe even since the moment they met, since their dinner at Angelo’s.

And now they’re here, they’ve _made_ it, and John might not even believe it himself if it weren’t for the fact that Sherlock is currently curling his tongue around his, hitting a sensitive spot at the roof of his mouth and twisting just the right way. John can barely do anything but hang onto him for dear life and respond with equal amounts of passion.

Even in his wildest fantasies, John doesn’t think he’s ever let himself believe Sherlock would be so… enthusiastic. He never imagined Sherlock would be so willing, so fervent. But there’s no mistaking his eagerness now and John is not about to complain. If anything, it makes him want Sherlock more, if that’s even possible.

John steals a hand under Sherlock’s shirt, freeing the material from under his trousers and Sherlock moans loudly against his mouth. John chases the sound, desperate to hear every wanton noise he’ll be able to pull out of Sherlock Holmes, but he realizes, suddenly, that maybe they shouldn’t be doing this in the foyer. They’ll scar Mrs. Hudson.

John takes a few steps backwards, pulling Sherlock with him, and Sherlock seems absolutely unwilling to allow any amount of space between them. John has no idea how they actually make it up the stairs: they are a mess of tangled limbs, their mouths still ruthless, kissing with abandon. John very nearly falls on his ass as he walks backwards up the steps, but they manage to get there quite literally in one piece, as they refuse to separate for any length of time.

John blindly reaches back for the doorknob, twisting and shoving it open, and as soon as they make it past the threshold, John is pushing Sherlock back into the door slamming it shut with the weight of their combined bodies. Sherlock gasps when the inertia drives John’s hips directly into his, and John takes advantage of his open mouth to suck on his lower lip, pulling it between his teeth and _god_ , the sight of Sherlock like this – desperate, wanting, his head tilted back against the door, cheeks flushed with arousal – is enough to bring John to his knees.

He lets his body sink to the floor before Sherlock, his face coming flush with the very evident erection straining against Sherlock’s trousers and he thinks it should be strange, that it should feel foreign to him, that maybe he should be hesitant given his inexperience in this particular department, but his mouth floods with saliva and anticipation boils in his blood. He wants to taste Sherlock, wants to hear all the filthy sounds he can pull from him mouth, wants to have him weak from desire and out of control.

“John, are you s-”

His sentence is cut short when John brings his palm up to cup him through his pants, applying just the right amount of pressure to appease the growing need for friction he knows Sherlock must be desperate for. “I’m sure,” he says anyway, just to reassure Sherlock. He’s never been more sure of anything is his damn life. Sherlock’s hands are fisted at his side as John reaches up, unbuckling his belt and sliding it past the loops, letting it fall to the floor with a loud clatter as the metal hits the wooden floorboards.

John purposefully doesn’t look up to meet Sherlock’s gaze, focusing on the task at hand, popping open the button and tugging down on the zipper. Sherlock’s length is bulging, and John bites down on his bottom lip at the thought of taking him in his mouth. He pulls down Sherlock’s trousers, exposing his long, pale legs and John thinks he feels Sherlock’s muscles quiver as he runs his hands down the length of his bare skin. Sherlock helps, toeing off his shoes and honestly, John is surprised at how coordinated they both are considering how much they had to drink tonight. The trousers come all the way off then and John straightens again, his face level with Sherlock’s centre.

This time John looks up, his eyes meeting Sherlock’s and his heart stutters in his chest, his own arousal sparking as he recognizes the raw need spread out over Sherlock’s face, his clenched jaw, the way his eyebrows are drawn together tightly, pupils blown wide. John doesn’t break eye contact as he reaches up, lets his hands trail up the length of Sherlock’s thighs, up his sides until he reaches his abdomen and he feels Sherlock’s muscles flex beneath his hands. Sherlock’s breathing is erratic, coming in short pants and John still doesn’t look down as he pulls on his pants, tugging them forward and over Sherlock’s hard length and lets them drop to the floor. Sherlock’s gaze is piercing, and John feels frozen to the spot, utterly transfixed and the moment seems to last forever until Sherlock finally breaks the silence. “John.” His voice is strangled, deeper than usual, and it sounds like a prayer, like he’s on the verge of pleading.

It breaks John out of his trance and he finally looks down, his eyes landing straight on Sherlock’s hard length, solid and alluring, and John doesn’t wait a second longer, he inches forward and touches his tongue to the underside of Sherlock’s tip. He licks his way up, feels the wet fluid of Sherlock’s pre-come coating his tongue and Sherlock moans above him, his entire body going rigid against the door as he struggles to retain his composure.

John revels in it, loves how close he is to making Sherlock lose all control and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t succeed in doing just that. His hands move up to brace Sherlock’s hips against the door and he takes the glans in his mouth, tongue swirling and then he sucks until Sherlock’s hips buck against his hands and he groans out John’s name.

Fuck, no one has ever made his name sound so filthy.

Reassured that he must be doing something right, John ventures on, opening his mouth wider and taking in more of Sherlock’s length. He sucks and licks and one of his hands moves from Sherlock’s hips to hold the base of his shaft. He bobs his head up and down his length, establishing a rhythm and he hears Sherlock’s head thump against the door loudly as he curses, and John has never heard anything hotter.

“John, John, John,” Sherlock repeats his name like a prayer, like his brain has short-circuited and all that’s left is _John_.

John hums around his erection and Sherlock hisses, his hands shooting out and latching onto John’s hair, gripping tightly, his lower body bucking, and it goes straight to John’s groin. He moans, his hips rutting against thin air and Sherlock barely has time to warn him, a whispered “John, I’m-” before his entire body convulses in pleasure, and he comes in John’s mouth, eyes screwed shut, holding onto John’s hair, pulling roughly, but John loves it. He looks up at Sherlock and something coils deep in his abdomen, clenching, need ripping through him because holy shit, the man is beautiful. Sherlock is always attractive, but John has never seen him like this, lost in the throes of orgasm, skin flushed and hair an absolutely mess.

He’s never ached for anyone so badly.

John is panting, still catching his breath when Sherlock tugs at his hair and he forces himself up from the floor, only noticing for the first time the twinge of discomfort in his knees, but he doesn’t mind it so much: not if it’s the cost of seeing Sherlock like this, so open and sated and somehow still hungry for him.

He hasn’t even made it to his full height yet before Sherlock’s mouth is on his, kissing him roughly, apparently not caring one bit about tasting himself on John’s tongue. John moans into the kiss, reaching up to tangle his fingers in Sherlock’s thick, messy curls, and god, there’s _nothing_ like this.

Sherlock’s hands let go of his hair and before John can even start to wonder where they’ll make contact next, Sherlock is grabbing his arse and using the leverage to grind John’s lower body against his thigh which has John groaning rather loudly, his hips jerking at the delicious friction.

Shit, _shit_ , he could quite possibly just rut against Sherlock like this and find his release fairly quickly – he really is that far gone – but he wants more, wants to take his time with Sherlock. He doesn’t want this to be over so fast, just in case Sherlock decides this was a bad idea once the rush of endorphins and the remaining alcohol in their systems wears off.

They should talk. They really, really should. But John can’t risk this, can’t stand the idea of ruining things and not even getting tonight. They can talk later.

“Bedroom,” he manages to choke out, between kisses to Sherlock’s jaw and neck. “We should-”

Sherlock nods but makes no move to separate from John, in fact his hands squeeze John’s arse again and he hisses. John pulls away from Sherlock’s neck enough to meet his eyes.

“You’re a bloody tease, you know that?” John asks with a quirked brow.

“Me?” Sherlock sounds incredulous. “You’re the one who was touching me all evening. Why do you think I allowed you to get me so drunk?”

“Oh, you _allowed_ me, did you?” John starts walking them backwards, towards the general direction of Sherlock’s bedroom, stumbling a bit because they both refuse to allow more than a foot of space between them, but he’s smiling because Sherlock basically just admitted to getting drunk because John kept touching him.

“Yes, we’ve been over this, I told you I knew you’d been putting extra shots in my graduated cylinder.”

“God, you’re insufferable.” John kisses him before Sherlock can protest or attest to John’s own insufferable behaviour and drags them through the bedroom door. Sherlock is making quick work of his clothes, unbuttoning his shirt and pushing it past his shoulders until the material hits the ground. He finds that spot behind John’s left ear, the one that makes his knees go weak and how does he even _know_ about that?

“Your current state of being and eagerness seem to indicate that you, in fact, find me to be more than tolerable,” Sherlock deduces and John feels a zip of arousal spark down his spine at hearing Sherlock’s deep baritone voice making observations about him while his erection presses against Sherlock’s skin. Fuck, he’s going to have a kink for Sherlock talking in bed, isn’t he? He already wants to hear it again, wants Sherlock to whisper all the dirty things he wants to do to him in his ear until he comes.

“You should not be this eloquent after what just happened against the door,” John complains because really, how is this fair?

“That’s only because you took the edge off,” Sherlock clarifies, and he is so close to whispering in John’s ear, he thinks he might burst on the spot if Sherlock keeps talking. “Of course, I certainly wasn’t coherent at all when you had your mouth around my-”

“Shut up,” John slaps his hands over Sherlock’s mouth, his dirty, pretty, beautifully enticing mouth because fuck, he can’t hear those words sliding off Sherlock’s tongue right now, he knows for a fact he would come before his pants were even off and that just won’t do.

Sherlock looks confused. “I was getting the impression you were enjoying it when I spoke,” Sherlock mumbles behind John’s hand and damn it, he already knows that too. Of course, he bloody knows, he’s Sherlock Holmes, master of all observations.

“I was,” John admits, his hand leaving Sherlock’s mouth to unbutton his own trousers and he shoves them down his legs roughly. “A little too much, that’s the problem. I didn’t want to…”

John trails off, a tad embarrassed but Sherlock is smiling ruefully now, as though he’s just discovered a weapon with which to destroy John, and God help him, he probably has.

“I’d like to experiment with that, next time,” Sherlock declares, and John’s brain short circuits for a second and a half because – did Sherlock just say _next time_? Does he want this as much as John, even after the bliss of release? Something sharp lodges itself inside John’s heart, squeezing tightly and it stops his lungs for a moment too.

When John’s brain comes back online he surges for Sherlock, meeting his lips in a possessive kiss, taking and taking everything Sherlock is willing to give, pulling him down with him until both of them hit the mattress, John on his back and Sherlock kneeling over him, a tangle of limbs as they make their way up the bed. “ _Yes_. Yes, next time we can experiment,” John agrees, probably with a bit too much enthusiasm, Sherlock kissing a path down his chest and god, he can barely catch his breath. “Anything you want.” He doesn’t care what Sherlock wants to experiment, so long as it involves the two of them doing something that assuredly leads to _this_ , he’ll follow Sherlock anywhere.

“What of tonight then?” Sherlock questions, moving to the side, his tongue darting out to swipe at John’s scar, paying special attention to the healed skin and John chokes on a moan. How is he supposed to think? He’s out of his mind, feels like he’s having some sort of out of body experience, although he’s paradoxically acutely aware of just how much his body is feeling right now. He feels like he’s been on the brink for ages, like he’s been edging for _years_ , and hell, maybe he has. He’s denied both he and Sherlock this since the moment they met and now he’s paying the price.

He wants everything, his mind is spinning with it, with the innumerable amount of possibilities, all the things they could do, and he wants them all with Sherlock. But Sherlock is right, he needs to decide on one, just for tonight. What if they only had tonight? He knows – he’s hoping he didn’t read too much into Sherlock’s ‘next time’ – that they’ll have time for all the other things, but if this was it, if all he got was one night with Sherlock, he thinks he would want-

“Inside you,” he breathes out the words, tongue heavy in his mouth as Sherlock laves at his left nipple. “I want to be inside you.” Sherlock stops, his head snapping up to meet John’s gaze, eyes dark and wild.

“Yes,” he agrees and then moves to the side, leaving John cold, missing Sherlock’s warmth, but then he sees him reaching over to his nightstand, opening the drawer and pulling out a small bottle.

“Is that lube?” John asks, half relieved because he hadn’t thought about what exactly his demand entailed and half disbelieving because _Sherlock Holmes has lube in his nightstand_?

Sherlock gives him his best ‘ _Really, John?’_ look as if it isn’t perfectly obvious that he is, in fact, holding a bottle of lube.

“I just didn’t think you’d…” John trails off because, well, Sherlock is very clearly interested in sex, John apparently just had no idea up until an hour ago. “Didn’t think you’d be prepared,” he finishes off lamely and Sherlock looks away, averting his eyes and shit, no he didn’t mean-

“Hey,” John’s voice is softer now, he reaches up to cup Sherlock’s cheek in his hand, turning his head gently so he’ll meet his eyes again. “It doesn’t matter,” John assures him, and he finds that it’s true. He doesn’t care about Sherlock’s past, whether he’s had masses of lovers or none at all. “Nothing matters except this, right now.”

Sherlock nods a bit shyly, and John thinks it’s probably the most endearing thing he’s ever seen, certainly not an adjective he’d ever thought he’d use to refer to Sherlock, but somehow it makes John want him even more. There’s so much he still doesn’t know. They are best friends and they still have so much to uncover about one another, and John is so grateful, the feeling gripping him so tight he loses his breath. 

“I’ve wanted this for a long time,” Sherlock admits, and John nearly laughs, because, god, if only he’d known.

“Me too.” And then he’s reaching for Sherlock again, lips meeting his in a fiery kiss, and he lets his hands trail down Sherlock’s back until he reaches his arse, pulling him in until their lower bodies are grinding against each other and fuck, _fuck_ , it’s nearly too much. John hooks his leg around Sherlock’s hips and flips them easily, Sherlock landing on his back and John pries the lube from his hands.

“So how do you want to do this?” John’s a doctor, he knows the mechanics, he just wants to make sure Sherlock is comfortable, that it’s as good for him as it’s bound to be for John.

“I want to see you,” Sherlock insists, no hesitation in his voice and John nods, lips curving up in a smile as he looks down at Sherlock, curls askew, a light sheen of sweat glistening over his chest. So beautiful. He’ll stay on his back so they can face one another.

He twists open the small tube, coating his fingers with the slippery substance and reaches down between their bodies. Sherlock opens himself up to John, legs splaying wide on either side of John’s hips, and he thinks he might actually die if Sherlock keeps looking at him like that: eyes deep and blue and wanting and _trusting_.

He ventures further down and Sherlock gasps when John’s fingers brush his perineum, rubbing gently until Sherlock is squirming beneath him. He watches in amazement as Sherlock begins to grow hard again, surprised by the quick recovery time and John’s own erection throbs at the sight, begging for any semblance of release. Soon _, soon_ , he promises himself.

John’s fingers stretch down until he reaches Sherlock’s hole, never breaking eye contact with Sherlock as he pushes a single finger gently inside him, his abdomen contracting with heavy want, the remainder of his blood rushing south and sucking all the air from his lungs. John moves the single digit in and out, slowly, patiently, and he watches Sherlock’s every move, drinking in his every reaction. The way his jaw is clenched tight, his head rolling back against the pillow and when John adds a second finger, Sherlock’s hand shoots forward to grip John’s wrist, the arm holding onto Sherlock’s waist. His grip is tight, like he’s on the verge of losing control and _fuck_ , John hasn’t even touched him yet, but he feels his own erection dripping, aching so badly to be inside Sherlock he truly fears he might come without contact at this point.

“Sherlock, are you-”

“I’m ready,” Sherlock says before John can even finish his sentence, his hips meeting John’s thrusting hand. “Do it, John, please.”

_Please_.

Oh God, Sherlock doesn’t beg for anything, not for a anyone, but he’s begging now, begging for him and John makes a sound close to a whimper in relief. He pulls his fingers out of Sherlock, takes himself in hand, slicking himself with more lube and positions himself at Sherlock’s entrance, now open and ready. They lock eyes again and when Sherlock nods, John angles his hips forward, entering him in a swift, yet gentle move.

“Oh god, oh fuck, Sherlock,” he moans, pleasure gripping him so tight his head spins and it’s a genuine effort not to come on the spot. John’s upper body falls forward, his palms landing next to Sherlock’s head on the mattress and they just breathe each other in, their faces mere inches apart. John dips his head and kisses him, messy and wet and uncoordinated but it’s everything, _everything_ and then his hips are pulling away, and back in again. He sets up a painstakingly slow rhythm that has them both gasping and groaning, foreheads brushing together, eyes screwed shut as exquisite shared pleasure rushes through them both. John can feel Sherlock’s hard length against his stomach on every thrust as he angles his lower body forward and god, _god_ , how is it possible to feel this _good_?

What did he ever do to deserve this?

He doesn’t know, can’t think, can’t comprehend anything past the _rightness_ of being buried inside Sherlock and never wanting this to end.

“John,” Sherlock sobs his name and his hips snap forward of their own accord, harder than he intended and he feels Sherlock’s body squeeze around him. His vision fills with white, the tight coil of need twisting at the base of his spine and for a second he worries about having hurt Sherlock, but his legs come up around John’s lower back, pushing him down and into him forcefully and something snaps inside him. John grabs hold of Sherlock’s hands with his own, pinning them above his head on the mattress, twining their fingers together and just… lets go. He thrusts into Sherlock, harder, rhythm be damned and just lets himself _feel_. His heart rate grows wild, his breathing is laboured, and Sherlock is cursing and repeating his name like it’s the only thing left to hold onto _John, John, John_ and at the sound of Sherlock’s voice he feels like his body has been shoved off a cliff towards oblivion, burning spikes of pleasure stabbing through him as he comes, buried deep inside Sherlock, his entire body singing, every inch of his skin rippling in release. John feels Sherlock bite down on his neck, hard enough to leave a mark, his body clenching around John’s, fingers gripping him tightly as he holds on and then a jet of fluid hits John’s sternum as Sherlock finds his own release.

John collapses on top of Sherlock, his muscles failing to hold him up any longer, spent and languid, he nuzzles his face into Sherlock’s neck. He feels sated, completely blissed out, like the world could end right this second and he doesn’t think he’d care, so high on endorphins not even the apocalypse could make him come down. Sherlock is still holding onto him, legs and fingers twined together and in no hurry to let go.

They stay like that for a while, sweaty and tangled up, just breathing each other in. When the haze of pleasure starts to lift, John doesn’t panic, but the worry starts to set in. What is Sherlock thinking? Did he really mean it about _next time_?

He’s scared of losing Sherlock, of being forced to give him up now that he knows with utmost certainty what he wants.

He opens his mouth to ask, to get reassurance but all that comes out is: “That was incredible.”

Sherlock hums beneath him, like a cat purring its content. When he speaks his voice is low and gravelly and it does wonderful things to John’s insides. “If I’d known this sort of high was possible, I might have avoided drugs altogether.” A laugh bubbles out of John, then Sherlock, and soon enough there are both giggling, naked and plastered against each other and John is relieved that despite it all, they’re still _them_. Sherlock is still just as crude and obnoxious, and John still laughs at his inappropriate comments.

When their laughter dies off, John shifts his weight up onto his elbows, looking down at Sherlock.

“Did you mean it?” Sherlock asks, his voice suddenly serious, but somehow shy.

“Mean what?”

“About leaving Mary?” Sherlock clarifies, meeting John’s eyes, in a guarded yet vulnerable way. John lifts a hand to brush one of Sherlock’s curls from his forehead, something he’s thought about doing too many times to count but had to hold himself back. He doesn’t have to anymore.

“I did.”

“Wouldn’t you regret it?” Sherlock avoids his eyes now and John realizes he’s giving him an out, an opportunity to go back to his fiancé, back to the life he was about to begin with her. He doesn’t want it.

“I couldn’t,” John tells him without a hint of hesitation. “Not when I know what this feels like. I never thought you wanted this, Sherlock. Me, us,” he clarifies. “If I had… I never would have waited this long.”

“What about not being gay?”

John sighs, angry with himself. “I was an arse.” He knows he’s played a part in all of this: there’s a reason Sherlock never said anything about his feelings for John. “I think I’d convinced myself you didn’t want me so thoroughly, I had to try to convince myself I didn’t want any of it in the first place. I was wrong, Sherlock.” He knows he’s messed up, that he’ll have to put in the work for Sherlock to believe him when he’s spent the last few years telling people the contrary. “Do you remember that first night? At Angelo’s?”

Sherlock looks back at him then, his eyes curious. “I told you I was married to my work.”

John nods. “But you were right. I _was_ hitting on you. I was trying to be subtle about it, but you saw right through me. Course, back then, I had no idea what you’d come to mean to me. You’d already turned me down once, and I didn’t want to risk losing you as a friend, so I tried to shut it all off, to tell myself I didn’t want you that way. And I shut down anyone else who tried to imply that we were anything other than friends because I couldn’t handle them pointing to what I thought I couldn’t have, what I thought you didn’t want. It was a protective mechanism, Sherlock. A shitty one, I’ll give you that, but I… I didn’t mean it.” John exhales a long breath, his shoulders feeling lighter now that he’s freed the words from his chest. He waits for Sherlock to speak, feeling vulnerable and bare, but filled with hope.

“I had no idea either,” Sherlock echoes. “When I told you I was married to my work, I didn’t know that anything could rival how important that was to me. But you did. You became fundamental, you were everywhere, John. It’s like I couldn’t function without you anymore.” John can’t help it; he bends down to catch Sherlock’s lips between his own, the kiss sweet and tender and hopeful.

“So, you want this, too?” He needs to hear Sherlock say it, clear as day.

“Only with you,” Sherlock nods, and it’s all John needs to hear. He knows they’ll be okay. Better than okay. That this is the best decision he’s ever made.

* * *

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read, left kudos, or left comments, you have no idea how much it means to me. I'd love to know what you thought of Part 2 ;)  
> Special thanks again to Becca and Chels for being the best Betas and cheerleaders! This fic might not have happened without you.


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